


Scotch

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Stag Night, Angst, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scotch is rich, smooth on John’s tongue but biting as he swallows each sip. The sitting room seems soft, almost faded, a blur on the inconsequential details that he’s so familiar with. Except for Sherlock, but Sherlock has always been far more than could possibly be explained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scotch

The scotch is rich, smooth on John’s tongue but biting as he swallows each sip. The sitting room seems soft, almost faded, a blur on the inconsequential details that he’s so familiar with. Except for Sherlock, but Sherlock has always been far more than could possibly be explained. He’s disaster, a whirling tornado in a confined space, and yet he’s utter stillness too, a statue carved of the finest white marble, each intricate line scored out perfectly, nimble fingers and high cheekbones, delicate angles half-hidden in the shadows.

(If John’s honest with himself – and if there’s one thing he can be with this scotch it’s honest – he’s thought that since that first evening when he texted a murderer, Sherlock stretched along the couch in his white shirt with his hands in the prayer position and wearing three nicotine patches.)

Sherlock’s not a marble statue now, yet nor is he tornadic destruction. Instead, he is loose-limbed, relaxed, sprawled back in his chair with a tumbler held delicately in his hand and his customary jacket thrown off, a faint flush on those aristocratic cheekbones, eyes bright from the scotch. Tonight, he’s a fallen angel throwing away his impenetrable façade of coldness, the alcoholic light to his eyes joined by a certain tenderness, a gentleness in the way he pours their drinks, and John is forcefully reminded of how much Sherlock has done for him, planning this night, planning the wedding to follow it. ( _And he’s hurting over it too, but he won’t say anything because he’s Sherlock and emotions like that are anathema to him,_ a quiet voice whispers in John’s mind.)

They talk a little, but don’t say much of anything. Mostly, they just bask in this moment, and it’s almost as if they’re back to the old days, before Moriarty and all that he entailed. (If only it could be as simple as that. And if he focuses enough, John can almost imagine that the scotch is a gift from a satisfied client and they’ve just gotten finished with a difficult case. Then he catches – or imagines he does – a haunted look in Sherlock’s eyes that was never there before, and in a flash the illusion is shattered.)

Sherlock leans forward with the bottle, and John leans in closer to him so it’s easier to top up his glass. Sherlock’s curls brush his cheek, and he involuntarily takes a breath.

“Sometimes I wish it had never happened,” Sherlock murmurs, his breath ghosting across the edge of John’s ear. “I wish I’d never had to fake my death, and that things could be as they were before. It’s illogical to imagine a world where that could be possible, but I find it happening nonetheless. If we could only go back –“

John cuts him off by pressing a figure to his lips. “I know. I feel the same way. If I’d known . . . But this is what we have now.”

Sherlock nods, the soft light catching on his unshed tears, glistening like pricks of fire. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Hardly have the words passed John’s lips, when he finds Sherlock’s fingertips pressed to his cheek, gentle, seeming to memorise every curve, every line. He doesn’t protest, hardly breathes, and a heartbeat later the hand falls away.

“Stay tonight. Please.” A twitch, an almost imperceptible tightening of Sherlock’s lips that John only notices because he’s so accustomed to those subtle shifts of expression on that face. And right now, in this moment, this microcosm of time while the world seems to stand still in spite of the wedding hurtling closer, he can think of no other way to reassure Sherlock that he’ll always be here for him.

So he nods and drains his scotch. “Of course I will.”


End file.
